The scrape into which Dick had got himself could not really be as serious as her father imagined, since the grandfather of the culprit had spoken of it so lightly—and, in any case, the crime of forgery 267 never horrifies a woman as do the supposedly meaner crimes of other theft and of violence. It was surely something that could be put right, and, if it could not, then it would become a battle of heart against conscience. But, at present, love held the field.
It was absolutely necessary to see Dick, and get information on all points; and, as it was quite impossible to extract information from her father as to her lover’s whereabouts, the rectory seemed to be the most likely place to gather news. To the rectory, therefore, she went.
Dick was upstairs, ill. When her name was taken in to the clergyman—she chose the father in preference to the mother from an instinctive distrust of Mrs. Swinton which she could not explain—John Swinton trembled. Cowardice suggested that he should avoid her questioning. He knew why she came; and was not prepared with the answer to the inevitable inquiry, “Where is Dick?” Yet, anything that contributed to Dick’s happiness at this miserable juncture was not to be neglected. Therefore, he received her.
Dora was shocked to see the change in the clergyman. His hand trembled when it met hers, and his eyes looked anywhere but into her face.
“Mr. Swinton, you can guess why I have come.” 268
“I think I know. You have heard the glad news—indeed, everyone seems to have heard it—that my son has been given back to me.”
“And to me, Mr. Swinton.”
“What! Then, you do not turn your back upon him, Miss Dundas!” he cried, with tears in his voice.
“I have come to you, Mr. Swinton, to find out where he is, that I may go to him, and hear from his own lips a denial of the atrocious charge brought against him by the bank.”
“Yes, yes, of course! I don’t wonder that you find it hard to believe.” The guilty rector fidgeted nervously, and covered his confusion by bringing forward a chair.